


How to Succeed in Academia: Werewolf Edition

by Harratus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Student Stiles, Cthulhu Mythos, M/M, Miskatonic University, Nemeton, One Shot, Past Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Possession, Professor Peter Hale, Steter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harratus/pseuds/Harratus
Summary: After losing his partner to a bizarre possession gone wrong, paranormal investigator Peter Hale decides to leave the family business behind to pursue his old dream: becoming a college a professor. Of course, leaving the supernatural is easier said than done when you're a werewolf and your best friend is a hellhound.Art byhisaribi(whoishisaribi). Inspired bythis prompt.  Find artist's second piecehere.





	How to Succeed in Academia: Werewolf Edition

 

* * *

 

I wake up tied to the Nemeton in the middle of the Preserve, the old tree’s knobby bark digging into my back. The only light is the full moon shining overhead. The forest is silent except for breathing and the sound of footsteps behind me.

Normally when I’m in these situations, I can count on Chris, my partner in life and our successful paranormal investigation business, to save my ass. Unfortunately, both he and the Beacon Hills County Sheriff, the third person I can usually count on, were also tied to the magic tree stump in the middle of the woods.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Jennifer asks, twirling a gem studded dagger in her hand. She’s also wearing Chris’s silver pendant around her neck. It’s an old Argent family heirloom that celebrates their hunting heritage. I can make out the wolf embossed on the front. She must have taken it from him when he was out.

“No. Enlighten me,” I say.

Jennifer crouches in front of me, eye to eye, pressing her blade against my throat, not quite drawing blood. I spit in her face. She applies a hair more pressure and slices a thin line right beneath my Adam’s apple. It heals as she cuts because of my accelerated werewolf healing, but a few drops of blood cascade down my throat. Chris sees it because I hear him say ‘dammit Hale’ under his breath. Some things never change.

“To revive the Nemeton,” Jennifer says, “I need to complete a fivefold knot. I already sacrificed my virgins, warriors, healers, philosophers. Who better than Beacon Hills’ three bravest men as my guardians?” She paces around the Nemeton again, making eye contact with each us. “I knew I wanted Sheriff Stilinski and Chris Argent, the head of the Argent hunting empire. Imagine my surprise when I found out that he and Peter Hale, the Hale pack’s former left hand, were a two for one deal?”

“You’ll never get away with this,” Chris yells, hoping to stall her into a villainous soliloquy.

Jennifer laughs like nails on chalkboard. A chill goes down my spine. “You and what army? Loverboy here is tied with wolfsbane.”

“Him and this army,” my Idiot Nephew calls from the edge of the clearing, brandishing one of my enchanted revolvers. I shake my head. Not the backup I was hoping for, but at least he has a weapon.

“Let’s not be dramatic, Derek,” Jennifer says. “Do you feel bad I used you to destroy what’s left of your family, the way Kate used you the first time?” Derek scowls and I see his finger tighten on the trigger. “Hoping for one last goodbye fuck? Did you miss me?”

I roll my eyes. Chris and I were hunting a demon over in Kansas when we get a frantic call that his girlfriend is possessed. Possessions are our specialty, so of course we hightail it over to Beacon Hills to investigate. Turns out she's not possessed; she's an evil druid. Regardless, she must still have his balls because he just stands there.

I smell Parrish before I see him; the acrid smoke of hellhound is a stark contrast to scents of the woods and garden variety dark magic. In addition to being supernaturally inclined like myself, Parrish is also deputy with the Sheriff’s Office. I'm not sure if he and my Idiot Nephew are working together or happened to find us separately, so I figure the best way to help both of them is to keep Jennifer monologuing.

I feel a grin creep across my face. “Better hope my nephew isn't as good a shot as my husband,” I say.

Jennifer rounds on me, this time with a manic gleam in her eyes. I can hear Jordan cutting someone’s restraints, but Jennifer doesn’t see because she’s focused on me. She's descending further into madness. “Oh Peter, you and I both know he doesn't have it in him.”

Jordan works fast because before I can snap a witty comeback, Chris bursts from his restraints and sinks a bullet straight into Jennifer's forehead. I can still see Jordan crouched behind him out of the corner of my eye. The Nemeton, as large as it is, blocks most of my view. Jordan works on untying the sheriff as Chris works to help me.

“Derek looks like he could use some comforting,” he breathes into my ear. A werewolf could have heard him, but Derek probably didn’t because he's off retching behind a tree in the clearing’s periphery.

“When you married me, he became your responsibility too.” Besides, Chris is clearly the good cop in this relationship, not me. It’s sad when the one who was groomed to be a genocidal hunter is also the emotionally adjusted one. I’m still smarting from when my Idiot Nephew let Kate burn the rest of the Hales and he would have let Jennifer finish the job,

“Can it lovebirds,” the sheriff says as he rises, “We have a body to dispose of. Is there any forensic evidence that suggests we were here?” he asks, waving his arm at the Nemeton. “Any reason I can't go home to my son to tonight?”

I look down at where Jennifer's blood is seeping into the soil. I kneel, scoop up a crumbling handful of dirt, and bring it to my nose. There's usually something visceral about the smell of blood that whets my bloodlust, but this feels like more, like maybe it's not really over.

“No we’ll take it from here,” Chris says and watches the Sheriff make his way into the Preserve’s foreboding woods. “She's dead, right?” He gives me a funny look and grabs the pendant off Jennifer’s body. He puts it in his pocket instead of wearing around his neck.

“There's nothing your Argent bullets can't kill. But if she completed four of the five knots, where did the rest of the magic go?” Chris looks at the Nemeton but doesn’t say anything else. No one really understands how magic works, not even those who claim to control it.

Parrish is still lingering too, so he, Chris, and I separate Jennifer's head from her body and bury them separately outside the clearing. This area used to be a ritual burial ground, so one more body shouldn’t be noticeable. Chris finds my Idiot Nephew on the way out, puts an arm around his shoulder and starts soothing him. Chris had raised a daughter before she and her mother died hunters’ deaths, so he's good at being nice.

I catch up to Parrish. “What do your senses say?” I ask him.

He takes a deep breath, a loud noise in the Preserve's eerie silence. “I felt her death pass but there's more coming.”

That's a bad sign. Hellhounds are portents of death, especially of the supernatural variety. It's even worse when you consider how few of us are left in Beacon Hills. It was a good thing Chris and I left when we did; an Alpha pack and a deadpool did a number on the county’s remaining supernatural residents.

We stop when we reach his cruiser, Chris and Derek not too far behind. Jordan reaches into his pocket, grabs a pen, and starts scribbling on the back of a Department-issued business cards.

“This is my phone number,” he says. “Call it if you need help.”

“Wow that bad?”

“Call it insurance.”

“Fair enough. How did you find us? I can't imagine my Idiot Nephew going to you for help.”

Jordan grins and leans in to whisper in my ear. “I have a GPS tracker somewhere on the Sheriff's person.”

“Insurance?”

“Yes, but if anyone else asks it's that shifter sense of smell.”

Chuckling, I tell him, “Your secret’s safe with me.” I see Parrish off and return my attention to my Chris and Derek. Clenching my jaw, I want to say something scathing to my Idiot Nephew about how getting his dick wet is going to be the end of us, but Chris’s impassive Dad-look is enough to silence me this time. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Fortunately Derek lives in his own apartment, so we drop him off and go back to our place. I’m not sure why he still lives here. He can’t be any less haunted by his memories and this place than I am. Chris and only keep an apartment here because of our roots. Beacon Hills isn’t home for us anymore.

I don’t bother unpacking the car. With our mission accomplished, we can head back out tomorrow morning. I close the door behind us and Chris pulls me into a tight embrace. He’s just about to kiss me when my phone starts ringing. It’s my Idiot Nephew.

“Answer it,” Chris says. “He’s your family. You’ll regret it more if you don’t.” I know he’s speaking from experience. This is what I get for marrying the hunter with a heart of gold. I’m sure my parents roll in their graves every time I get intimate with him.

I answer the phone. “Now’s really not a good time-”

“Uncle Peter! I think she’s outside my apart-”

A beat passes. Dial tone.

I like to think I’m at least little genre savvy about the kind of life I lead, so I know better than to call his name after the call disconnects like the concerned mother of a B horror movie. I also like to think I’m a tough, scary Alpha but I can tell from Chris’s expression that the blood did in fact drain from my face.

“It’s not over, is it?”

I shake my head. “Derek said something about a ‘she’ but I can’t imagine a witch being strong enough to come back from what we did to the body.”

Chris frowns, an expression I’ve been seeing too often from him lately. “Get your go-bag. I’ll grab the holy water.”

“You think it’s a real demon?” In all my years as a supernatural being, I’d never heard of anyone who’d actually seen a real demon. Most demonic possessions are actually ghosts, a little known fact outside of the community of real paranormal investigators.

“I wouldn’t rule it out, at this point,” Chris says, performing a routine equipment check. “Not a lot of things can reanimate a dead body.”

I shoot a text to Jordan. Someone needs to know where we’re going in case we go missing.

Chris hands me the keys because it’s my turn to drive. We’re already out of the parking lot when I make the mistake of looking at the dashboard. It’s already pushing 3:30 AM and I realize how long it’s been since either of us have had a good night’s sleep. Did being knocked out in the woods count as sleeping? Probably not, considering the dark bags under Chris’s eyes. Werewolf healing can fix a lot, but a quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals how exhausted my body is too.

We pull up to Derek’s place. I don’t even have to get out my key to his place because the door is cracked ajar.

Chris sidles up the door frame, his favorite gun in hand. I stretch my senses and raise one finger for the one heartbeat I hear. Chris nods and moves in, sticking close to the wall. He’s been here often enough that doesn’t knock into any of the picture frames decorating the entryway. I follow him in, trying to pick up any other clues.

I turn back toward the door and take a closer look at the interior handle. The brass knob is covered in cold, translucent ectoplasm. How did I miss this? I dip my finger in it and bring to my nose.

Yep, ectoplasm.

A glass breaks behind me. The Alpha red bleeds into my eyes as I turn around.

“Did you miss me?” a feminine voice calls out.

“Jennifer?” I personally buried her severed head in the Preserve, but she’s standing at the opposite end of the living area with her head newly attached, holding on to Chris and Derek, one in each arm.

“No, but we as it turns out we both a have a taste for dog.”

“Kate?” I rack my memory, trying to remember who killed Kate and who did what what with the body afterward. From what little Chris said about sister, I always assumed her body was salted and burned in a traditional hunter’s funeral, which should have been enough to prevent her spirit from sticking around. I pat my pockets, but I don’t think I have anything for this, not that I even understand what is happening yet.

“Took you long enough. Looking for something?” She drops Derek to the ground, pulls the flask of holy water from Chris’s jacket and pours it out on Derek’s carpet.

My mind is racing but my blood is ice in my veins. I unsheathe my claws. I try to catch Chris’s eye, but he’s unconscious.

Kate must see because before I can finish the shift, she snaps Chris’s neck and drops him to the ground next to Derek. “I’m glad I could finally have my revenge on the blood traitor.”

The wolf lunges toward her, claws out, thirsting for blood. Lupine strength is no match for a vengeful spirit riding the body of a witch hopped up on blood magic, so Kate casts it aside, barely moving a muscle. The wolf lunges again, but this time spelled into landing on Derek’s antique coffee table. It’s an antique from Talia’s side of the family, one of the few things to survive the fire and enough to put me back in control. I get up, brush myself, and coil my legs as my scrapes heal. The wolf is out of for blood and so am I, but only I know we’re fighting a losing battle.

Kate take a confident step forward, an unusual swagger for Jennifer's body. “Any last words?” she says. She's holding Chris's gun in her hands. The leather handle must be enough to prevent her from burning herself on the wrought iron handle.

A gunshot from behind saves me from certain doom. Jordan rushes in as Kate crumples into herself and screams, but she manages to throw herself out the broken window before either of us can do anything.

The adrenaline fades and I shift back to human. I don’t even know I’m crying until Jordan wipes the tears from my eyes.

“Derek is still alive,” he says. “I’m sorry about Chris. He’s gone.” He holds me for an eternity as sobs wrack my body. “We need to get out of here before someone reports the noise and the gunshots.”

Ghosts are one of the oldest forms of magic; every culture has some kind of ghost. The Hale pack has been guarding the Nemeton, the oldest magic in Beacon Hills, for generations, ever since James Edward Hale founded the town in early 1850. A century and a half of magic is at my disposal. Is this old enough to beat a ghost tethered to the world without a human body?

Chris’s blood is still seeping into the carpet. Looks like Derek won’t be getting his security deposit back after all.

That’s when it hits me.

My training kicks in and my grief is set aside for now. I pick Chris’s limp body up and sling him over my shoulder. I can feel Jordan staring into the back of my head. “I have an idea,” is all I say. I put Chris in the trunk of our - my - car. Jordan is watching, waiting to see if and when I’ll snap from losing my mate, so he gets into the passenger without raising a fuss.

For the second time tonight, we’re going to the Preserve.

Jordan manages to lead us directly to the Nemeton, a perk of being attuned to the deaths that fueled it. He didn’t say anything when I brought Chris’s body with us, but it doesn’t take a werewolf to figure out when someone is trying their hardest not to judge.

Right as we step into the clearing, I can feel the magic vibrating underneath my skin. It’s almost like when middle school kids think it’s fun to trick you into using an electric pen, but for the whole body.

“Didn’t we stop the ritual?” Parrish asks. I think he feels it too.

I set Chris down where Jennifer’s blood spilled only hours earlier. “Jennifer’s blood was enough to continue the ritual, but not enough to finish it, damaging the veil in the process. Kate’s spirit must have been hanging around and took advantage of the opportunity.”

Jordan hums thoughtfully.

“I think if I can finish the ritual, I can close the tear tin the veil,” I continue. “Blood of a Hale, guardian of the Preserve.” I cut my forearm, parallel to the veins so I can bleed faster, and bleed on the Nemeton’s stump. “Blood of an Argent, guardian of the Hills.” I grab a syringe from my go-bag and pull some of Chris’s so I can offer it up too. “Tree of Life, I beseech thee to close the veil.”  Deaton used to say something about belief being the spark of magic. If I believe in this, is that really enough?

Maybe not, because nothing happened. The thrum of magic haunts my veins. Where did this go wrong? The Nemeton got three blood sacrifices, Jennifer’s, mine, and Chris’s, to finish the last knot. What more does it need from me?

“We’ve got company,” Jordan says. It’s Kate. My heart pounds in chest because there’s still only so much I can do against a ghost possession, even with the power of a hellhound by my side.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Hale,” Kate says, “but I can’t let you do that. The night is young and I still have more Hell to raise.” Kate is speaking, but I still see Jennifer’s body. It’s a jarring juxtaposition.

Jordan pulls out his service weapon, but my attention is on the Nemeton. I recall an old werewolf trick where the claws of an Alpha to the back of the neck has various psychic effects depending on the power of the Alpha in question. Tyrannical Alphas have used it to wipe memories and read minds. Is the Nemeton sentient enough? There’s only one way to find out. Still standing by the Nemeton, I sink my claws into the oddly warm wood.

The force of the Nemeton is enough to pull me from my body and my awareness expands to become the whole forest. The Nemeton guides my free hand to where Kate and Jordan are standing off. Then, the power of entire Preserve flows through me and Kate is pinned to the ground. She attempts to counter with her borrowed powers, the will of Nemeton is older and stronger. Its force is enough to drag her the stump as her fingers grasp ineffectually at the forest floor, leaving long marks in their wake. Her body slides up the stump against the force of gravity, resting in the middle of the discolored heartwood. With one hand still embedded in the Nemeton’s, my free hand plunges into Jennifer’s body for the heart.

The heart must be where her magic is stored, because I can feel the power burning through my body, just like fire did all those years ago. It’s too much and I try to break the connection between Kate, myself, and the Nemeton, but the half-dead tree refuses to let go.

There must be an actual fire, because Jennifer’s body disintegrates before my eyes. When all that’s left is a pile of smoldering ashes, I finally pull my hand free from the Nemeton’s woody flesh. Jordan’s strong arms catch me as I collapse.

When I come to, we’re still in the woods and Jordan is still holding me. An hour must have passed because color is finally bleeding into the horizon.

Jordan joins me as I silently prepare Chris for a hunter’s funeral. I take the Argent pendant out of Chris’s pocket before Jordan burns the body. To prevent them from coming back as ghosts, hunters’ bodies are normally salted and burned, a kind of paranormal prophylaxis. I watch as my life goes up in flames for a second time.

Next thing I know I’m leaning against the side of my car. Jordan is still watching me. “I’ll work out the details of Chris’s… ‘disappearance’ with the Sheriff,” he says. He gives me a measured look. “Is there anyone I can call? Anywhere I should bring you?”

I’m a wolf who just lost his mate. He’s right that I should be under observation, but I never had a contingency plan for this. I always assumed that Chris would outlive me and I think he did too.

“I have a cabin near Mendocino, if you can drive that far.”

“Of course.”

I toss him the keys, get in the passenger seat of my own vehicle, and close my eyes.

 

* * *

 

When I wake up again, the car is parked outside a Chevron. The midday sun makes my eyes water, but I can still make out Jordan’s silhouette as he fiddles with a vending machine while talking on the phone. The daylight dispels some of my mind’s fog, and I recognize that we’re in Mendocino. I turn around and see the park across the street. A minute passes and Jordan crawls back in the driver’s seat. “Downtown Mendocino is cute. I got a few days off so I can figure out how to get home later,” he says. I immediately regret dragging Jordan five hours away, but he rests a hand on my knee and says, “Don’t worry about. I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Thanks.” My voice croaks, so he hands me a water bottle. I take a greedy sip before continuing. “I can give you directions from here.”

We make it to my place and he walks me to the front door like a gentleman. On autopilot, I turn the coffee maker on and grab my usual spot at the dinette table. “I’d offer you a ride, but I don’t think I can go back.” I feel vulnerable, admitting my weakness to him, but Jordan offers me a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe go to grad school, find work teaching somewhere. I don’t want to do any more investigations. Before Chris, I always thought I would end up in academia.  Even once we were together, he always said I’d be a hot professor.” I tried to smile but the absence is still too raw.

Jordan pushes past my forlorn attempt at humor. “That sounds like a good plan.” He hands another business card toward me, in case I lost the first one. I hadn’t. “You can call me for anything.”

The coffee maker beeps. I grab two mugs from the cupboard. “How do you take your coffee?” I ask, pouring an expired creamer and two packets of Splenda into mine.

“Black is fine.”

I hand him his mug before collapsing back into my seat. He grabs my hand and trace comforting circles with his thumb.

“I have a contact who can fly you out of the airport here. He owes me a favor for a ghoul infestation.” I write down the contact information for him. “Mendocino’s not too big on the public transportation and I’d hate to imagine what an Uber cost.”

Jordan nods. He’s hesitant to leave, but I see him out the door.

I leave my coffee cooling on the dinette table before collapsing into bed. I try to sleep, but I see Chris’s vacant gaze every time I close my eyes.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a rough transition. Chris and I were some of the few hunters who managed to make a living hunting by dressing it up as paranormal investigations. Most of the hunters I knew were Chris’s contacts, but the few that tried passing potential hunts onto me were shocked when I told left the family business behind me. Most of them rightfully pointed out that the supernatural is in my blood, but denial and repressed grief can go a long way.

Five years and one PhD in Folklore later, I’m starting my new job as an associate professor with joint appointments in American and Religious Studies at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts. As it turns out, giving up the supernatural completely is hard when you’re a werewolf and you’ve spent your entire professional life hunting ghosts. On the bright side, it means I already published two books and have a contract for a third, not counting my lucrative werewolf romance series penned under the name C. Fenris. It’s a hit with the real werewolves out there because if of how much more accurate it is than Twilight.

The faculty parking lot is across the quad from Danforth Hall where I’m teaching my first class. Danforth Hall is a textbook Georgian-style building, from the perfectly uniform and symmetrical brickwork down to Ionic columns supporting the colonnade and the triglyhs in the entablature. It’s a testament to Miskatonic University’s status as one of the oldest colleges on American soil and the enduring legacy of Ward Phillips, the University’s first president and founder of the esteemed Ward Library. The Ward Library is especially attractive to someone like me because it’s the largest collection of folklore and esoteric texts at a public institution.

My first class, a senior seminar on modern mythologies, is starting in a few minutes and students are finally trickling in. It’s the only class in the north wing at this hour of the morning, so I can hear the weary footsteps of my students trudge up the narrow staircases as I pull the class roster from my leather messenger bag. Most of my seniors have tired faces and vacant eyes, but one student in particular catches my eye. He’s a brunet with pale skin, dimples, and a tasteful smattering of moles on his face. There’s something captivating but oddly familiar about his tousled hair and easy smile. His graphic tee and plaid combo is a very approachable look, broadcasting humor and self-confidence. I’ve never been one for following the rules, but it’s too early in my career to be fantasizing about students.

I wait a few minutes past 8:00 AM before I start taking attendance so I can give the last few stragglers the benefit of the doubt on the first day of class. I wouldn’t normally care about attendance, but it’s a recent mandate handed down by the University’s administration to combat grade inflation.I read through my list of students and make it to ‘Stilinski, Stiles’ when it dawns on me - he’s the Sheriff’s kid.  After handing out the syllabus and fielding inane questions like ‘do we really need to buy the textbook’ and ‘is attendance really mandatory’ (yes and yes), I end class early so they can get a head start on the reading and be prepared for this week’s lecture.

Most of the students rush out, but two are still lingering.

“Professor Hale?” Stiles asks, “You wouldn’t happen to be the same Hale from Silver Wolf Investigations, would you?”

“As a matter fact I am, but I’ve been retired for several years now. You wouldn’t happen to be Sheriff Stilinski’s kid, would you?”

Stiles laughs, then reaches out to shake my hand. “You bet! I’m Stiles, this is my best friend Scott McCall.”

Scott also has brown hair, but is more tanned and has a tattoo on his arm peeking from underneath his shirt. “You’re infamous around the station, by the way. Deputy Parrish would tell us all about your ghost hunts.”

Stiles laughs again and clasps his arm around Scott’s back. “And Scotty here believed all your stories, but I’ve always known ghosts aren’t real.”

“Ah, so I have skeptic in my class?” I say with a pointed look to Stiles, “Even skeptics have to participate in class discussions.”

Stiles makes an exaggerated frown and groans as Scott leads him out the door. “Don’t worry Professor Hale,” Scott says, “I’ll make sure he does the work.”

I cross the quad again to my office. Despite my joint appointment, I only have one office in the Department of Religious studies, which is located on the third floor of the Albert N. Wilmarth Hall of Ideas. The Hall of Ideas houses the College of Humanities’ various departments on the second and third floors, with the first floor celebrating the groundbreaking accomplishments of Miskatonic University’s illustrious faculty in a series of themed exhibits, including a small but permanent installation of the pioneering work documenting the folklore of Vermont conducted by none other than Wilmarth himself.

By the time I make it through a Byzantine series of hallways in the back half of the wing, someone is already there waiting for me. Her red hair frames her face with perfect waves. Her nails are manicured and match a her outfit, a fashion forward blue romper with surprisingly high and narrow heels for crossing the quad’s cobblestone walkways.

“You have the wrong office. You’re not in my class.”

“Professor Hale?” I nod. “I’m Lydia Martin. I’m your LA for the semester.”

“My LA?”

“Learning assistant.”

I open my office and invite her to take a seat. “I just started,” I say, trying to explain the austere state of my office and my lack of institutional knowledge. I have yet to bring in any of my personal possessions so my office is as as it was given to me.

She nods. “Here are at Miskatonic University, we don’t have TAs because we don’t have any graduate students. Instead, departments hire undergraduate students as needed.”

“Right. Well, my office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9:30 to 11:30 and on Fridays from 1:00 to 3:00. How about you check in with me during office hours and we can go from there? We can count this as today’s check-in.”

“Perfect. I look forward to working with you.”

I grumble an acknowledgement as she turns to leave, her curls bouncing behind her.

My attention returns to my office. The flooring is the same awful geometric gray carpet that covers the rest of the religious studies wing, the kind that would itch under my feet if I were to ever take my shoes off. As far as furniture goes, I inherited a rickety laminate desk from and a plywood bookshelf from the previous tenant. It’s not my personal style, but it’s functional and that’s good enough for me.

I send few pictures to Jordan, knowing he’ll compulsively give me a curated list of style guidelines. It’s no that I couldn’t do this myself - Chris certainly didn’t have a creative bone in his body - but Jordan will enjoy it a lot more than I would.

 

* * *

 

“This week we’re going to learn about possession. Can anyone name the six types of demonic possession?” The semester just started, but I can tell that most of my seniors think they already graduated.

“Possession, obsession, oppression, external physical pain, infestation, and subjection.”

“Good job, Stiles.” Stiles is actually one of my better students, surprisingly enough. I take a moment to survey the rest of the class. Most everyone is half-asleep. It’s an 8:00 AM lecture after all, so I can’t say I blame them. “How about the four signs of demonic possession?”

“Blasphemous rage, revelation of knowledge, speaking in tongues, and super strength.”

“Thank you, Stiles.” I segue into my lecture, but the department doesn’t really care what I teach as long the students write a final paper because it’s a senior seminar.

I head to my office. Stiles shows up as soon as I settle into my office chair. I still haven’t decorated my office, except for a crucifix paperweight and an upholstered goldrush-chic chair Jordan had sent to my apartment as soon as I gave him my new address. It’s a welcome addition, but my office is still very much a work in progress.

He eyes the chair and gives me a onceover, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. It doesn’t make sense.

“The chair is a gift,” I say.

“That explains so much.” He makes a face like he wonders if he said something rude, but I motion for him to continue. “Professor Hale, I’m worried about the final paper. None of this is real. How am I supposed to write a 20 page academic paper on it?”

“It’s the beginning of the semester. You can still drop the class,” I say pointedly.

“No, I want to stay. I just… need some more help, I think.”

I roll my chair to the bookshelf and grab a book. “This is the Journal of American Folklore. It’s peer reviewed, so people do write academic papers on this stuff.” I hand it to him and he touches it gingerly. “If you’re serious about making doing well on the final paper, I have an extra homework assignment for you.”

He grimaces. “I don’t have the read the whole thing, do I?”

“I don’t even read the whole thing.” That earns a soft chuckle. “I want you to look at the abstracts and the read the article with the most interesting abstract. Think about why you liked the abstract and what you would do differently”

Stiles mumbles his thanks. Lydia walks in as soon as Stiles walks out the door.

“I still don’t have any work for you. What are your goals after graduation?”

Lydia thinks for a minute. “I don’t know. I’m double majoring in mathematics and religious studies. It would be nice to combine the too, somehow.”

“If you’re serious about pursuing your education in religious studies, grad school is the way to go. Why don’t you start working on an independent project? We can try to publish it, which will look great on your CV.”

“Thanks, Professor Hale. I’ll get back to you with some ideas.”

Lydia leaves and I start to working on my lectures notes for Thursday.

 

* * *

 

Stiles chews his pen methodically, a tic when he’s not paying attention. It’s distracting, but less distracting than his mussed hair. I would never have picked him as my type before, but after seeing him every Tuesday and Thursday morning, he’s grown on me.

Crap, what am I supposed to be talking about?

“Uh, alright, well that’s it for today class. Remember to sign up for one of the faculty dinners if you want extra credit on next week’s midterm.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose to distract myself from Stiles’ distraction. Get it together, Hale.

I grade proposals for the rest of the afternoon. I decided to vet my students’ topics final papers, but now I realize that it’s just busy work for me and for them. I roll my chair back, the wheels hitting the wall behind me.

My office is still mostly bare. If I move my desk a few inches to the left, I’ll be lined up with the blank wall next to my office door. I bet I could fit a dart board there. Maybe I could throw the darts at the proposals instead of grading them? It would have the same effect on learning outcomes.

Lydia, my ‘learning assistant’, interrupts my reverie. “Professor Hale, here are the list of students coming to your faculty dinner event.”

“That must be a mistake. I’m not hosting one this semester.”

“You are now. Dr. Finstock is out for the rest of the week because of a shoulder surgery. The office assistant just sent the update.”

I grab the list from her manicured fingers and sigh. “It’s just Stiles and Scott?”

“Dr. Finstock coaches the club lacrosse team. That’s how they know each other.”

“You’re friends with Stiles?”

Lydia gives me an inscrutable stare. “Stiles and I dated. He took me to prom. I’m also from Beacon Hills. A bunch of us go here.” She senses my unease. “It’ll be fine. Scott and Stiles love you.”

“They said that?”

“Not in those words.”

I fold one of the proposals into a paper airplane and throw it at here. “Well, I have a dinner party to host. Wish me luck.”

 

* * *

 

Miskatonic University is a small liberal arts college that prides itself on the accessibility of its faculty, which is why our department mandates that faculty host a small dinner party every week. To encourage academic immersion we’re supposed to prepare material for a small, informal discussion. As the resident expert on werewolves, what better topic than a history of werewolves? Courtesy of marrying into the Argent clan, I am now in possession of the Argent pendant, the oldest known depiction of the Beast of Gévaudan. I grab the pendant from where I keep it in my study and bring it with me to the dining room table. I also grab some contemporary werewolf romances, including the ones I wrote as C. Fenris.

My palms are sweating at the prospect of having company. After going back and forth on what to feed them, I finally decided on simply ordering a pizza. Stiles is laid back and would probably prefer that over something fancy. Oh, and Scott too. Probably.

Preparing for the faculty dinner much less work than I work than I expected, giving me more time to pace my house and ruminate. My home here in Arkham is pretty bare too. After living on the road for so many years, most of my life still fits in a couple of suitcases and it shows. I don’t have Jordan’s dedication for antiquing, so most of my home is furnished by Ikea. Too bad I didn’t get Jordan to decorate my house for me. It’s probably a moot point since no one’s going to enter my den after this. I trace my fingers along the edge of my granite countertops. At least the kitchen is nice.

Scott and Stiles arrive together, barely minutes after the pizza delivery.

“Come in, I have pizza.” I lead them to my dining room and let them serve themselves. Scott grabs a bottle of water and Stiles gets a Mountain Dew. You are what you eat.

“I was surprised that we’re coming here instead of Coach Finstock’s place,” Scott stays. Stiles is busy stuffing his face with pizza. I shouldn’t be turned on by this. Has it really being that long since I’ve gotten laid? Or is this just what middle age is like?

“Me too. That’s why we’re eating delivery pizza.” I grab myself a slice of meat lovers, like a proper werewolf. “Tonight we’re going to talk about werewolves.”

Scott chokes on his pizza and Stiles almost does a spit take.

“Werewolves,” Scott manages between coughing discreetly into his napkin, “we’re really talking about werewolves?”

I laugh. “You just sat through my lecture on demons. You’re really that surprised by werewolves?”

I accidentally lock eyes with Stiles because Scott manages to feel embarrassed and looks away. I had never noticed how bright his eyes were until now. Stiles licks his lips and my pants tighten.

“There’s a rich history of werewolves, starting with Lycaon who was turned into a wolf for feeding Zeus human meat.” Scott and Stiles give each other a look. “Although perhaps not a werewolf in the strictest sense, the Beast of Gévaudan is history’s most famous wolf monster.” I pull out Chris’s old pendant. “This silver pendant is one of the earliest depictions of the Beast.” I hand it Stiles who takes a good look at it. His eyes unfocus for a second before handing it off to Scott. Lydia once mentioned his ADHD to me in passing, so I don’t take offense.

“One of the interesting things about studying folklore is tracing the changes in meaning over time. Look at these books. Werewolves aren’t monsters anymore. If anything, they’re finally sexier than people.” Stiles nudges Scott with elbow.

Scott frowns. “So you have a PhD in… werewolf romance?”

“Well you when put it that way…” We all share a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Fall is well underway, which means it’s time for pumpkin spice lattes, apple cider, and midterms. Miskatonic University stipulates that midterm grades be available to students at the semester’s halfway point. I have a sense of which students are participating in class (Scott and Stiles) and which ones aren’t (everybody else). I know it won’t make a good impression with the department chair if I decide to fail half the class on account of their participation grade, so Lydia helps me write a midterm. She raises an eyebrow when I add an extra credit section related to werewolves (I’m not above playing favorites) but doesn’t say anything.

Administering a midterm is possibly the most boring I’ve ever done. I’ll have to ask Lydia if there’s anyway for me to avoid giving a final. The one bright side is that I get watch Stiles. After discreetly adjusting myself when he licks his lips, I decide that perhaps watching the clock is a safer use of my time.

Seconds pass and my drift back to Stiles who licks his lips again, his tongue slowly tracing a perfect arc. I adjust myself again. Which one of us has the oral fixation?

This can’t possibly be my life now.

Minutes crawl by and Stiles is the first to turn in his test. I try to grade but his mouth is burned into my retinas. Scott turns his text in next. Then Liam. Then Hayden. After that, I have to start kicking students out and taking their midterms because.

I’m already disappointed. I thought more than four students would finish. Are kids not learning how to answer short response questions?

There’s a brisk breeze blowing red maple leaves across quad. It’s enough to temper my arousal. As I approach the Hall of Ideas, a student tries to sell pumpkin bread to fundraise for the Model UN trip. It smells like Chris’s recipe, so I buy two slices.

I dash up to the stairs, two steps at a time, to find Lydia waiting outside my office.

“I finally have something for you to do,” I say while waving the stack of papers. Lydia sits in her seat, a mahogany stained Sheraton style chair I picked up at an estate sale after I noticed her disdain for my office’s infamous armchair. I hand her half the pile. She knows well enough by now that there’s never a rubric and gets right to work.

I sit in my office chair and spread my tests across my desk, hoping I have Scott’s or Stiles’s. No such luck for me.

I start from left to right and pick up my first test. It belongs to Liam Dunbar. He wears his Miskatonic University lacrosse jersey to class sometimes. I keep on hoping Scott will teach him how to write a complete sentence but I’m not holding my breath. I mark his test up in red, double check my arithmetic, and add his grade to my gradebook.

I’m halfway through my pile when Lydia gets up and grab the rest of mine.

“How do you grade so quickly?”

She shrugs. “I take off a letter grade for every five things I mark. What do you do?”

“Usually I dream about folding them into paper airplanes and throwing them in the trash, but taping them to the wall and throwing darts at them is also cathartic.”

“No really, what do you do?” I level her with an unamused expression. Then she breaks out laughing. I laugh too.

 

* * *

 

A few days come and go and I’m still thinking about Stiles. My phone ringing snaps me out of my fantasy. It’s Jordan.

“Hello?”

“Hi Peter, don’t sound too excited to hear from me. How’s the job?”

“It’s good.” I start pacing my living room. “Well actually, I’m glad you called. I’m having a problem. My wolf is attracted to one of my students.”

Silence. Then laughter.

“That’s not what I was expecting. Have you...?” he trails off.

“No I haven’t, not since Chris.” Jordan probably suspects that. He knows I haven’t been in a good place since leaving Beacon Hills.

“Well that’s your problem. Go out, have fun, unclog those pipes, and clear those cobwebs. Let me know if you-”

“No that’s fine. Thanks for calling. Talk to you later!” I hang up and take a deep breath. Jordan has a point. It’s just a fluke that my werewolf instincts are fixated on Stiles.

I grab a cab downtown and hope I don’t run into too many students. I haven’t gone out since before I started dating Chris. As a werewolf, I can’t get drunk, so there isn’t really a point.

When I get out of the cab, I look up and realize that tonight is a full moon. I’m a grown, born werewolf so I don’t shift unless I want to. Nonetheless, the moon makes my bones itch.

After struggling economically when manufacturing jobs left the Greater Boston area, Arkham and the rest of Essex county enjoyed a revitalization period in the 1970s. Unlike the rest of northeast, Arkham has managed to avoid gentrification due to an unusually high crime rate. Despite its poor reputation, downtown Arkham is actually pleasant. The city planners have embraced Akrham’s industrial heritage and adolescent Gothic revival phase to a create a truly scenic series of storefronts along the Miskatonic River.

I duck into the first bar I find. It ends up being a dive filled with kitschy nautical decor that caters to the college students that wander in from Miskatonic University. I almost turn around and walk out, but I can hear Jordan giving me a pep talk in the back mind, one of the perils of knowing someone (and someone knowing you) too well. Plus if I left I’d probably just go home.

I try to make the most of the situation. I grab a seat at the bar and order a beer, which only serves to remind me why I don’t drink. What am I doing here? A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. Two guys are brawling and one of them lets loose a right hook that sends the other one flying. The crowd gasps and parts and I get a good look at the aggressor.

It’s Scott.

I react automatically, flying out of my seat and grabbing Scott to pull him back.

He’s much stronger than I expect but I don’t need to use too much werewolf strength to drag him out the back exit amidst the bar owner’s yells and the voyeuristic crowd.

I unhand him once we’re clear of the premises and pointedly ask, “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits with a sheepish expression. “I was just so mad.”

I try to meet his eyes but he won’t look at me. “You’re too good of a student to be getting into this kind of trouble.”

“I know. I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t myself.

I give him a once over. He doesn’t seem hurt at all, which is good. “Well you look a hell of a lot better than the other guy.  You good to go home?”

“Yeah. thanks for helping me out, Professor Hale.”

I watch Scott as he walks off and shake my head. I’ll admit the leather jacket gives him a bit of bad boy vibe, but he’s normally so pleasant and mild mannered that I have trouble believing that same Scott McCall would start a bar fight on a weeknight.

I cut my losses for the night too and grab a cab home.

 

* * *

 

Before I know it, November rolls around and Jordan starts hassling me to come to Beacon Hills for Thanksgiving. I try to demur each time, which we both know is uncharacteristic for me, but I’m not about to admit to Jordan I’m worried about running into Stiles (the Sheriff’s kid, no less). I spend enough time thinking about his smooth skin and I hardly see him outside of the classroom as it is.

I’m sitting in my office, pretending to grade papers. The outline for the final paper was due last week and I said I would give feedback before break. Scott’s my only student who’s still trying. What does this say about the state of higher education?

My phone starts ringing. It’s Jordan. I ignore the call.

I go back to Scott’s outline. He must have appreciated my faculty dinner because he wants to write about werewolves. I don’t really care about the rest, I’ll give him an A.

“Professor Hale?”

“Yes?” My eyes snap up and I see Lydia standing in the doorway.

“You have a call waiting for you,” she says, holding the department phone in her hands.

I sigh. So much for academia being an ivory tower. “Hello?”

“Hi Peter. The Sheriff and I pitched in to get you plane tickets to Beacon Hills. Your flight’s on Wednesday. It shouldn’t be this hard to get my best friend to visit Northern California’s number one resort town for the holidays.”

“Dammit, Jordan.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. It takes every ounce of effort not to growl in front of my learning assistant.

“I heard you’re friends with the boys. They’ll make sure you don’t miss your flight.”

‘“Remind me not to give the Sheriff that bottle of Maker’s Mark I’m still holding onto.”

“Love you too Peter. See you in a few days!” Click.

I can’t believe Jordan has the nerve to hang up after springing that on me. This is definitely karma for all the bad things I’ve said to my Idiot Nephew. I sigh and hand the phone back to Lydia.

I rip up one of the outlines at throw it at the wall, bemoaning my lack of a dartboard.

Lydia comes back and picks up the pieces. “Looks like Hayden’s not getting a good grade.” I’m still sulking when Lydia sets it back on my desk. “Normally I keep out of your personal life, but it becomes my business when you bring your problems to work.”

“You’re right. I just don’t want to go home.”

“Is Beacon Hills really that bad?”

“No, but there’s a reason I left.” I pretend to re-read Scott’s proposal so I can end this conversation, but Lydia’s too smart to fall for it. She purses her lips. I give her a challenging stare, exuding as much of an Alpha vibe as I can without shifting.

“Don’t you want to be happy?”

“No.” I can’t exactly explain to her that I’m still not over my Idiot Nephew allowing Kate to burn our family because we’re werewolves, or even that I’m still recovering from the loss of my mate.

“Don’t you want your friends to be happy?”

I see where this is going. “Of course. I’m not that callous.”

“Then do it for them.” She snatches the papers from my hands. “Go home. I’ll take care of these.”

 

* * *

 

Wednesday comes and goes and I find myself on a flight to Beacon Hills for Thanksgiving. Jordan is waiting for me in the arrivals terminal, holding a giant ‘Peter Hale’ sign.

“Glad you made it.” he says with a cheeky grin. I throw my carry-on at him but he catches it with one-hand, perks of his hellhound strength. “Seriously though, the Sheriff would have released an APB for you if he thought you were trying to skip.”

I follow Jordan to his personal vehicle, a sleek black sedan. It’s a confident vehicle for someone who’s not overcompensating.

“Is there anything you need to do while you’re in town?”

“I don’t know. I should visit the cemetary. I haven’t paid Chris my respects yet.”

“Peter, you can go see him. Want to do that today? I’ll come with.”

I nod before resting my forehead against the cool window. Jordan drives in silence after that. The trees and landmarks blur as we drive past. I can’t help but feel like a dog on the way to the vet.

We arrive at the cemetary and the only other car in the parking lot is a periwinkle jeep. Jordan handled the funeral arrangements for me, so he leads us to the plot where Chris is buried. I probably could have found it myself, since Chris is buried with the Hales instead of Argents, but I’m still thankful for the company.  Once we get there, he gives me some space.

I try not to cry.

“I miss you, Chris. I’m sorry I took so long to come here.” I stand for a while with my brow furrowed, thinking about the moments we shared, adventurous and tender.

Jordan finally approaches and puts his arm around my shoulder saying, “He would want you to be happy.  You know that, right?”. I tear my gaze away from the words “Chris Hale” engraved on the stone, meet Jordan’s eyes, and nod. With a deep breath, the knot of grief in my chest finally begins to unravel. Back at the car, we are about to leave, but then I get a closer look at the owner of the blue Jeep.

Stiles?

“Hi Professor Hale,” he says.

Jordan looks at me as I try to formulate a response. Then he looks at Stiles. “How do you know Peter?”

“He’s my folklore professor at Miskatonic University.”

Jordan cracks a smile. I know he connected all the dots.

“I am, so don’t forget to do the readings for Tuesday.” It’s the best I can come up with.

“Sure thing Professor Hale!” Stiles waves and drives away. Jordan loses it.

“Of course Professor Hale, anything for you, Professor Hale.” Jordan starts laughing so hard he’s doubled over, his face rosy like a Victorian woman’s cheeks. “Of all the students, it had to be the Sheriff’s kid. This is the greatest moment of my life.”

“Shut it. This is why I don’t tell you anything.”

Jordan calms down enough that he can start driving us to his place, where I’ll be staying in the guest bedroom. He gives me a onceover when we’re stopped at a red light.

“I heard Stiles is bisexual. Maybe he’ll make a man out of you yet.”

“Careful, Parrish. Hell hath no fury like a werewolf scorned.”

“Did you get that from one of your werewolf books?”

We both survive the car ride, so Jordan lets me into his place. He lives in a two story house by the Preserve near the historic part of Beacon Hills. He complains about how big it is, how he hates mowing the lawn, paying property taxes, and being part of a homeowners association, but I know he loves the place. He picked it up for a good price when the bubble burst in 2008 and he’s been fixing it up ever since.

I collapse on the living room couch, a garrish paisley monstrosity with scratchy upholstery he picked up from an antique store. It’s hideous, but it fits with the goldrush-chic aesthetic he’s trying to establish in the rest of his home’s decor.

Jordan sits down and sets a takeout carton of Bamboo Palace’s beef lo mein in front of me. I can’t stay too mad at him, not when he’s paying me with the good stuff.

“The Maker’s Mark is in my suitcase. Do you want it for yourself?”

“It does me as much good as it does you.”

“You know what they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

“In that case, I know you’ve been plotting my murder since October.”

I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing Jordan. I haven’t been able have this kind of easy banter in years.

“I hate to spoil the fun, but what’s my Idiot Nephew up to these days? He’s the person I want to see the least while I’m in Beacon Hills.”

Jordan shrugs. “I lost touch with Derek after you left. I think he spent some in New York, but last I heard he was traipsing around Latin America.”

We sit in companionable silence until Jordan starts eating a fortune cookie. He breaks it half, takes the fortune out, and shoves both pieces in his mouth before reading the paper slip. “We’re eating dinner with the Stilinskis tomorrow,” he admits, casual as you may. I blink in confusion before he continues. “I don’t have any family left, so the Sheriff invited me and said I could invite you. Normally they celebrate with the McCalls, but Scott and his mom are out of town connecting with the Hispanic side of the family.” I groan, losing interest in my dinner.

Jordan looks guilty, an expression unfitting of his boyishly handsome face. “I didn’t realize it would be a problem. We can cancel if you want.”

“No it’s fine. I’m a grown man. It’s just… I didn’t think there would be anyone after Chris and I’m having trouble dealing with the werewolf instincts.” I set my lo mein on one of Jordan’s coasters.

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore. We’re here for you.” Jordan scoots over and gives a me a long hug before putting the leftovers away.

“Speaking of the Stilinksis, why was Stiles at the cemetery?”

“His mom died when he was a kid. He visits every time he’s back in town.”

We fall back into silence has he leans against the armrest, drapes his free arm over the back of the couch and rests his feet in my lap. It’s a comforting symbol of pack. I close my eyes and for once I don’t dream about Chris or the fire.

 

* * *

 

After the least restful sleep of my life, courtesy of falling asleep on the couch, I end up standing outside the Stilinksi’s place holding a pumpkin pie with Jordan by my side. I baked the pie from scratch earlier today, telling myself it was neighborly, but it felt like I was providing for my mate. Jordan grinned the entire and harassed me to sample the filling.

The Stilinski men live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. The Sheriff was probably hoping for more kids but never got a chance after Stiles. There’s seasonal wreath on the front door that I recognize from the Beacon Hills High School booster club sales. Some things never change.

The Sheriff opens the door with a bright grin on his face. Years of solving crimes and the occasional supernatural murdering spree have aged his face a little more than I expected, but he has the same grizzled yet wholesome charm Chris did. I wonder how much longer until I get that look. Jordan takes too much pleasure reminding me of the gray hairs in my beard.

“Welcome, make yourselves at home.”

As the Sheriff leads us through the foyer, Stiles appears from nowhere and grabs the pie from my clammy hands. His touch burns my fingers.

“Did you miss me?” Stiles breathes into my ear, sending a chill down my spine. No one’s there when I turn around, so it must just be case of my overactive and sexually frustrated imagination. The scent of mate must be playing a number of on my wolf mind. I take a deep breath through my mouth so as not to arouse the wolf anymore.My legs carry me to kitchen where the Sheriff regales us with some funny anecdotes as Stiles checks on the turkey.

“So Peter, I hear from Stiles you’re a professor these days.”

“Yes. After leaving Silver Wolf Investigations, I ended up in grad school and found myself with an offer to teach folklore at Miskatonic University.”

“Have you heard from Derek recently?” Stiles asks. I’m surprised he knows about my Idiot Nephew.

“No, I haven’t.”

Jordan, saint that he is, steers the conversation to Black Friday deals.

The next time the oven beeps, Stiles deems the turkey fit for consumption and the Sheriff makes short work of carving it. Jordan and I try to set the table, but Stiles insists that guests ‘sit their asses down.’ Thanksgiving with Jordan and the Stilinskis is a pleasant affair. It’s a kind of domesticity I’ve never really experienced as an adult.

That is, until Stiles makes eye contact with me while licking his fingers after eating a juice turkey drumstick with his bare hands. Even though Stiles is of age and old enough to be drinking the Miller Lite the Sheriff begrudgingly hands him, I still can’t help but feel like I’m about to be on To Catch a Predator. My pants tighten and I know it’s not just the second serving of homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. I’ve never asked Jordan what his sense of smell is like. Hopefully he can’t smell my arousal.

The Sheriff’s pager interrupts the show. “Sorry boys,” he says, “duty calls.”

Jordan and the Sheriff move outside to talk privately.

“Are you and Jordan a thing?”

I choke on a glazed yam. “No.”

“So he wouldn’t mind if I kissed you right now?”

“We can’t, Stiles. You’re one of my students.”

Stiles leans back and runs a smooth hand along his abs. “So if I wasn’t in your class, you’d bend me over the counter?”

“Stiles,” I say in warning, almost growling.

“Fine.” I watch him put a hand down his pants. I pinch myself. It hurts. I’m not dreaming.

Stiles pulls his hand out as soon as the doorknob rattles.

“The Sheriff had to go in,” Jordan explains. “I’ll take Peter home and then see if the Sheriff needs any help. Sorry Stiles.”

He shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

After Jordan and I put our jackets on, Stiles gets up to shake my hand, the same hand he used to touch himself just minutes ago. His grip is almost bruising and his smile carnivorous. “Thanks for coming over.”

“My pleasure.” Jordan and I step over the threshold and close the door behind us. The brisk California fall evening weather is sobering and a welcome relief from heat inside the house.

“That wasn’t so bad was it?”

I look at my hand. I’m not sure if I’m going to wash it right away if I’m never washing it again.

“I guess not.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles dominates my dreams. I think of him in the shower more than once, so I’m not sure how I’m going to look him the eyes come Tuesday morning. Hopefully we both got whatever this is out of our systems and life can go back to normal. Normal for a werewolf who writes and analyzes werewolf porn for a living anyway.

I finish my lecture, so I head to my office to prepare for office hours, but Scott is already there.

“Hello Scott, give me a moment to get situated.” He follows me in and sits across from me. I move everything off my desk into the ‘for Lydia’ pile. “How can I help you?”

“I just,” Scott winces he sees the crucifix on my desk, so I move it into a drawer. “I’m having some trouble. It’s senior year and I don’t know what I’m doing after I graduate.

“All through high school, I thought I was going to be a vet. But I think I mostly just liked the idea of being a vet. Now that I’m trying to apply to vet school and I’m trying to write my personal statements, my heart’s just not in it. I’m not sure what to do now.”

I take a moment to think about this. “I was a paranormal investigator for many years,” I say,  “but after my partner died, my heart wasn’t in it anymore either. I still don’t have everything figured out. I went back to school because I didn’t really know how to do anything else. But now I have job I like and I get to do what I love.” I pull his outline from Lydia’s pile. “You do great work in my class, Scott. You have the skills to do anything you set your mind to. If you ever need a letter of recommendation, I’d be more than happy to write you one.”

“Thanks Professor Hale.” Scott leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I’m still holding my usual office hours when Stiles shows up. Ever since he first came to office hours, he’s been doing a lot better. I can see the difference in the quality of his work, especially since he and Scott came over for dinner. He’s been much more engages with the material.

“Professor Hale?” he asks, “Do you have a minute?”

“I always have time for my students.” I try not to sound too eager to finally have him in my space again, hoping my smile is one the pleasantly erotic side of predatory.

He’s unusually still as he takes a seat in my office. “I think my best friend is possessed.”

I’m taken aback. On one hand, I want to show that I can provide for my mate. On the other, I don’t think I can do another exorcism after what happened last time. I’ve worked too hard to leave the supernatural behind me.

“I think my best friend is possessed,” Stiles says again, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

I lean back in my leather-backed office chair. I open my mouth to say something, but have trouble forming any words.

“I know you’re retired,” he continues, “but I don’t have anyone else to go to.” His expression is broken, so I get up and close the door.

“Why do you think your friend possessed?” I’m not sure what the rules about confidentiality are, but it seems like a reasonable precaution.

Stiles slumps in his seat. “It’s Scott. Haven’t you noticed anything strange about him lately?”

“Sure,” I say. “He’s homesick and worried about graduating and what he’s going to do after. Many people suffer from a fear of change.” I glance at the crucifix hanging next to my bookcase while Stiles continues stares boreholes into my office’s radiator. “Why are you here instead of student or mental health services?”

“It’s a textbook demonic possession.”  Stiles makes eye contact with me, a pleading expression in his eyes. “You’re the expert. Please help me.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

Stiles pulls out his phone and starts playing a video. The lighting is bad, but it’s definitely Scott. He’s tied to a chair. He’s screaming gibberish until he makes eye contact with me through the screen. He screams something about the Nemeton.

The video cuts out.

I think about my previous experiences with Scott. He’s certainly strong, as I saw when I broke up the bar fight. Name dropping the Nemeton is certainly evidence of forbidden knowledge. And I remember how he winced when he saw the crucifix on my desk, which could be a sign of blasphemy. I’m not convinced his incoherent rambling is grounds for speaking in tongues, so he’s displaying at least three out of four signs of demonic possession. That’s three more than most people who think they have a demonic possession on their hands?

Against, my better judgment, I agree. The circumstance are overwhelmingly strange. There’s no such thing as demons. But who am I to deny my mate?

 

* * *

 

Stiles leads me to the basement of a small, two story house in a quiet neighborhood on the opposite side of the Miskatonic River. A lot of students live here because the rent is cheap and it shows. He explains that he and Scott have been best friends for years and they live together. “And the only thing I could think to do with Scott was tie him to a chair in the meantime,” he says.

Stiles leads me down the creaky stairs to an unfinished basement. The full oddity of the situation sinks in after Stiles locks the door behind us.  It’s definitely Scott tied to a chair, in the spotlight of the room’s only working light fixture, looking none too comfortable with the gag in his mouth. He’s struggling against the restraints and glaring daggers at Stiles, but otherwise seems rather normal given the circumstances. He’s certainly more subdued now than he was in the video.

“There’s a couple different exorcisms we can try. Most garden variety demons respond to a simple prayer or incantation,” I explain. I clear my throat. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Hanc animam redintegro. Lustra, lustra!”

Nothing happens.

“I don’t think it worked,” Stiles says.

“I’m not prepared to lead a full ritual right now, but there’s another we can try,” I say. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.”

Scott rolls his eyes, an unusual expression given his usual sincerity, but hardly qualifies as blasphemous rage or an obscene gesture.

I step closer to him, leaving Stiles by doorway. I pull out the flashlight on my keychain and shine it in his eyes. Instead of the black that I would expect to flash back in demonic possession, I catch a glimpse of red. Alpha red.

“Scott’s not possessed,” I say. He’s a werewolf.

Stiles snickers. “Of course not. Did you miss me?”

I turn to face him. “What did you say?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? But you thought you saw the last of me by the Nemeton.”

The Nemeton? I haven’t seen the Nemeton since - “Kate?”

“He gets it in one!” Kate saunters over. She closes the distance between with the same familiar swagger that haunts my dreams. “I’m as surprised as you are, really. You did a real number on me with the Nemeton.  Fortunately, I’m back to finish what I started all those years ago.”

I unsheathe my claws. “So am I.”

“That again? Too bad you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Kate raises her hand but nothing happens.

I move in to take a swipe, fighting every instinct to not hurt Stiles, but Kate takes advantage of my hesitation and blocks me easily. The loss of Jennifer’s magic evens the playing field a bit, but the reality is that I’m still five years out of practice.

We’re locked in a standoff until Kate pull a small glass ornament from Stiles’s pocket and throws it my feet. I hop out of the way, but when I land I’m trapped in a ring of mountain ash.

“Stay put,” Kate says, “This is going to take longer than I thought.”

When Kate leaves, I take stock of my situation. I don’t have any of the things I would ordinarily bring to an exorcism, let alone a hunt, but I realize I have backup - Scott and I are trapped in the same circle.

“I’m going to rip the duct tape off now,” I say. Scott nods in understanding. He winces a little when it comes off.

“The rope is infused with wolfsbane,” he says, barely losing a beat. I nod and start taking my shoes off. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m going to use my socks to cover my hands.”

“Smart.”

“Yeah, well I’ve been a werewolf for over forty years so I’ve picked up a few tricks.” I make short work of the ropes. Scott stretches his joints like cat before testing the boundaries of the mountain ash. The wall flares to life as he makes contact. “How’d you become an Alpha?” I ask.

“I broke out of a circle of mountain ash shortly after an Alpha pack rolled through town.”

Ah the True Alpha. I remember Derek mentioning one once when Chris and I were out of town, but I never realized the True Alpha was local or even stuck around. “Think you can do it again?”

Scott nods and tests the barrier again, causing sparks to fly. He pushes harder, grunting with exertion as sweat starts trickling down his brow. Cracks start to form in the wall’s sheen. Using every ounce of my enhanced strength, I aim a punch at the largest spidering fracture.

The barrier dissolves with a crack, creating enough of a blast to disperse the black ring of mountain ash.

“I can’t believe that worked a second time,” he says.

“Perks of a being a True Alpha, but I do deserve some credit for the assist.”

Scott lets out a soft chuckle before furrowing his brows in concentration. “What now? I guess Stiles is possessed?”

“Possessed by the ghost of a certain hunter named Kate Argent.”

Realization dawns Scott’s face. Good, that means Derek told the young Alpha something useful. “How do we fix him?”

I frown, sifting through generations of accrued Hale and Argent wisdom. “Normally a simple salt and burn is enough, but Kate’s hunter funeral should have done that.” I glance toward the door. “But our first plan should be incapacitation. Kate is a dangerous hunter.”

Scott eyes race across the room. He darts behind an old workbench and comes back with a 50 lb bag of rock salt. “Salt stops ghosts, right?”

“Good -” I start saying when we hear footsteps go down the creaky stairs. I grab a fistful of rock salt, hide by the door, and coil my body in anticipation.

As soon as the door opens, I fly for Kate, grappling her to the floor with the element of surprise by my side. I wince as I stuff fistful of rock salt down Stiles’s throat and cover his mouth so Kate can’t cough it up. Scott wastes no time in circling us with salt. As soon as the circle is complete I hop out.

Kate hacks some undissolved salt crystals onto the cold concrete floor. “I’ll get you for this!” she screams!” She throws herself against the salt circle to no avail.

I motion toward the stairs and Scott follows me up to freedom. “We only have a few minutes before Kate figures something out.” I pause as he locks the door behind us. “Kate must be bound to an object that Stiles came in contact with,” I say. “That’s the only other way for a ghost to remain after cremation. It could also explain how she survived the Nemeton’s magic.”

“But we don’t know what she’s bound to,” Scott finishes.

We stare at each for a moment. “You look through his room and see if you find anything. I’ll find salt and a lighter.”

Scott nods and runs up the stairs. I rummage through the kitchen until I find what I need and run up to meet Scott. “Any luck?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Stiles started acting strange right before Thanksgiving, but I can’t think of anything thing he got around that time.” Scott paws through Stile’s backpack.

Come to think of it, Stiles was very strange at Thanksgiving. How long was he possessed for?

“Thanksgiving? You mean the faculty dinner at my place?”

Scott pauses and looks at me. “I guess? I don’t know, I thought he was just stressed and didn’t want to talk about it but then this morning he tied me up with wolfsbane.”

“He touched my husband’s old pendant at the dinner. It was an old heirloom given to him by his sister.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Scott asks.

“His sister was Kate Argent.” Scott’s faces scrunches in confusion. “I know. We have to go, now.” We race down the stairs to my car. Scott checks the basement door. It’s still standing, which is a good sign but no guarantee.

An eternity passes between us as we drive to my place.

Scott breaks the silence. “You married a hunter?”

“In my defense, he was one of the good ones and he had a really big - well nevermind.”

“Oh my god -” Scott brains himself on the passenger side window.

I smirk. It’s the little things in life.

We make it to my place uneventfully, considering the day’s previous events. I lead Scott to my study where I keep Chris’s pendant. I take it out and hand it to him, along with some salt and the lighter.

“I can’t burn it,” I say. “It’s all I have left of him.”

Scott leaves to take care of the pendant. I slump against my desk. My eyes sting. Scott comes back. He offers me his hand and pulls me up.

“It’s done,” he says. “We need to check on Stiles.”

“Can you track him?”

“Yeah, I should know his scent.”

We get back in my car and I roll a window down so Scott get a better hold on the trail. He leads us back to his house. The house didn’t burn down, which is a promising sign. We cross the threshold right as Stiles stumbles up out of the basement.

A beat passes.

Scott and Stiles launch themselves into a fierce embrace.

“Is she really gone?” Stiles asks.

“Only one way to be sure.” I pull the salt out of my pocket and sprinkle a line across the floor. “Step over the line.”

The house is silent as Stiles lifts his foot. We let out our collectives breath when his foot crosses the salt.

“Welcome back, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the semester passes in a blur. I don’t see Stiles in any of December’s lectures. After everything Kate had him do, some (most? all?) of it in front of me, I can’t say I blame him. I can hardly look at myself after that, so I can’t imagine what he’s going through. I can’t believe I thought any of it was real. Of course Stiles doesn’t see me that way.

I’ve ignored Jordan’s last few calls, saying I’m busy grading. He must not know what happened because he’d have shown up at my doorstep by now.

I’m pretending to grade final papers, as I’ve been for the past few days, when someone knocks on my door.

“Come in!” I yell. I keep the door closed when I’m not holding office hours, but it’s always unlocked if I’m here. I don’t know who it is yet, but my curiosity isn’t enough to distract me from re-reading the same few sentences over and over.

“Professor Hale?”

“Yes, Scott?” I look up and see dark bags under his eyes. “You look like shit. Especially for a werewolf.”

“Thanks, you too.” He’s not usually sarcastic and there’s no bite to his words. “Stiles wanted to know if he could still turn in his final paper?” Scott holds out a manilla folder with Stiles’s name on it.

“Of course.” I take it and add it to my pile. There are a thousand questions I want to ask. Scott moves away to close the door before sitting down across from me. I realize belatedly that he and Stiles must have questions of their own.

“How come we didn’t know? Why didn’t I know? I thought I was his best friend.”

We’re silent for a moment. Scott’s eyes start to glisten and he looks away.

“Kate was a professional,” I finally say. “Her family has been hunting werewolves for years. She knows me very well and Stiles knows you even better. Looking back, I see there were all kinds of red flags. But Kate exploited all my weaknesses and I fell for it.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned after all these years, it’s that you can’t dwell on the past and its what-ifs. Stiles needs you and he needs you now.”

“I can’t exactly go to student services to get help with my werewolf problems.”

“You can always talk to me, Scott.”

“Thanks.” Scott gets up and opens the door.

“Wait, Scott?”

He turns around. ‘Yeah?”

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Can you tell Stiles I’m sorry?”

An unreadable expression passes over his face. “Of course.”

Scott finally steps out and closes the door behind. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I pick up the final paper I was holding before. Grades are due by the end of the week and I still haven’t read a complete page. What if I just gave everybody their midterm grade?

The sun is setting when someone else knocks on my office door.

“It’s unlocked,” I yell.

Lydia walks in carrying a large box wrapped in shiny candy cane wrapping paper. “Professor Hale, you have a package.”

I take it from her when she hands it to me. I don’t usually receive mail at my work address. There’s a Christmas-y label on it that reads ‘To Peter, From Lydia’ in Lydia’s own erudite cursive script. I recognize it after grading papers with her for a semester. “It’s from you. You could have said so.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Just open it.”

At home I would use my claws, so instead I use the wolf-head letter opener I keep in my desk’s top drawer.

“It’s a dart board? Lydia, you didn’t have to-”

“Of course I didn’t. But I wanted to. Besides, you’re not that special. I only got it because it was great Black Friday deal.”

“I see how it is. There’s still time for me to decide I don’t want an LA for the spring.”

“Please, like you would even. You love me too much.”

We laugh. I pin an old essay to the dartboard. “You’re right. Do you have time for a game? First person to hit an ‘e’ wins.”

 

It’s finally Friday and I’m still grading. Next time I teach a seminar I’m making proof of revision at the writing center worth half the grade. How many dangling participles or comma splices until I can justify failing a student on principle?

“Professor Hale?”

Stiles’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up. His expression is as haunted as Scott’s was.

“Please, have a seat.” Stiles closes the door behind him with a soft click. “What’s on your mind?”

Stiles shifts in his seat. “Scott told me you’re sorry.”

My heart sinks to my stomach. “Yes, I behaved unprofessionally.” I don’t know what else to say.

Stiles considers this for a moment. “Kate knew I wanted you,” he finally says, tracing patterns in the armchairs paisley upholstery. “She would talk about your nephew and how she knew she could lead you on and control your instincts, just like she did with him. I thought if I stayed away for a few days I could sort everything out. But then Scott talked to me.” Stiles’s thoughts wander, but then he looks me in the eyes. “What I want to know is, do you like me?”

I melt a little under his amber gaze. “I think you’re very attractive. But I would like to know you, the real you.”

A blush creeps up his cheeks. “The semester is finally over. How about we start over.” He reaches a hand out. “My name is Stiles Stilinski.”

I shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Stiles. I’m Peter Hale.”

“Peter Hale.” Stiles savors my name. He leans in. “The pleasure is mine.”

 

* * *

 

I’m not surprised when Jordan calls to tell me I’m coming to Beacon Hills for the holidays.

“By the way, your flight is tomorrow,” he says. “Also, Stiles is already here so he can’t unclog your pipes unless you come to Beacon Hills, if you know what I mean.” I can hear his exaggerated eyebrow waggle before he hangs up.

The next thing I know, I’m in the Beacon Hills airport’s baggage claim when Jordan tackles me from behind. I know it’s him because I recognize his burnt smell and no one else I know is brave enough to (try to) surprise an apex predator. I turn around, wrap my arms around and pick him up. He laughs in my ear. “Wow someone’s happy to see me.”

That’s when I see Stiles, standing a few feet behind him. I put Jordan down when we make eye contact. He gives me a tentative smile. I rush forward to hug him too. I breathe in his scent when he buries his face in my neck and wraps his arms around me. For a moment, it feels like time stops.

“Did you miss me?”

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for the 14k Steter Reverse Bang in 2018 for the [beautiful art](https://imgur.com/Zz3Xwc9) done by hisaribi. I ended up turning into a nightmare dumpster fire of angst, so this story came together at the last minute and wasn't quite like The Conjuring AU my artist envisioned. If this story feels rushed, that's because it was, and if parts don't make sense, it's because they don't. Undeterred, hisaribi made [another amazing piece](https://imgur.com/UvNEaXM).
> 
> Find hisaribi's other works on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi) and [Tumblr](whoishisaribi.tumblr.com).


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